


The Most Painful Companion

by townshend



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written for an old old old prompt on the Kink Meme over <a href="http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=86217#t86217">here</a>. The prompt was: "Altair!angst. I want him to feel guilty about what happened to Kadar. Massive kudos if you can somehow work some guilt!sex or masturbation into this."<br/>It kind of got away from me into erotic humiliation, hopefully it still delivers.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Most Painful Companion

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for an old old old prompt on the Kink Meme over [here](http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=86217#t86217). The prompt was: "Altair!angst. I want him to feel guilty about what happened to Kadar. Massive kudos if you can somehow work some guilt!sex or masturbation into this."  
> It kind of got away from me into erotic humiliation, hopefully it still delivers.

_"Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death."  
-Coco Chanel_

 

Malik's words had cut through him hot like a knife. At first, Altaïr had tried desperately to defend himself, but in the end, words like _"My brother is dead, because of you! Because you could not heed my warning!"_ rang too true to ignore.

When Al Mualim's blade had plunged into him, Altaïr had found himself almost wishing for the sweet respite. At first, he'd hated Malik for storming into the study, his arm bloodied and hanging limply at his side, shouting accusations. But after a time, Altaïr realized that what he really hated was himself - Malik was right, about everything, and Altaïr's pride would hardly let him admit it.

Maybe that was the worst part.

In moments of clarity, Altaïr could see that his pride was keeping him from ever fully atoning for what he'd done. He wanted to mention it to Malik, to… agree that he'd been wrong, to apologise, but god, he couldn't. If he admitted he'd been wrong, it wouldn't do anything to help. It wouldn't bring Kadar back. It wouldn't give Malik back his arm. So why bother? Why agree that he was guilty when doing so would only bring the topic into light, make Malik have to think about it, have to hear about it?

He'd been standing in the Jerusalem Assassin's Bureau for far too long, it seemed, pondering it. He'd already taken the feather to commit the assassination Al Mualim had asked for, and Malik had told him coldly to get some rest before doing it.

Instead, Altaïr had just stood there, thinking. He didn't want to be enemies with Malik. It would be better, in his opinion, if they could act as if nothing had gone wrong at all. If they could just go back to where they'd left off, or start over again.

But Malik couldn't do that, could he? He couldn't go back, not when he was missing an arm and missing a brother and had been demoted to an office job where sometimes in his eyes Altaïr could see a familiar longing for adventure. There was no going back for Malik, and so he rested instead on malice, on punishing Altaïr for a crime that Altaïr couldn't even admit he'd committed.

 _"Safety and peace, Malik,"_ he'd greeted, weakly - a peace offering held out like a fragile olive branch, ready to snap in two.

Malik's reply had been scathing: _"Your presence here denies me both!"_ , he'd cried, and Altaïr's frustration had been apparent. He wasn't ready to face Malik like this. He could hardly face himself; hardly accept that Kadar was dead and that he wasn't coming back and that if Altaïr had listened to the Creed, perhaps none of that would have happened.

 _"My brother only tells me that I should be honoured to be asked to come along,"_ Kadar had said, his eyes shining with a sort of happiness - his idolisation of Altaïr was too obvious, and Altaïr had repaid him by ending his life.

"What are you still doing here?" Malik asked, harshly, his words bringing Altaïr back suddenly to the present day. "Coming up with any more good ideas, Altaïr? Like the one in Solomon's Temple?"

The words cut deep and Altaïr hissed, eyes shooting up to Malik. Here was where he should do it - here was the perfect place to lay himself out bare to Malik, to apologise, to bring everything that was festering under the surface into view.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't. A part of him wouldn't allow it. The other part of him hated that part, but there was just too much of it there.

As long as even an ember of his old self remained, Altaïr realised, he would never be free from the guilt of Kadar's death - and yet he couldn't stomp it out. The sat inside of him, ever-burning, smouldering away his ability to repent.

"It was poor execution," he murmured, instead, hating himself for it. "De Sable threw me from the room. I couldn't protect you. Or your brother."

"We wouldn't have needed your protection had you followed the Creed!" Malik cried. "And even with your help, Altaïr, there were too many of them! You would have only gotten hurt yourself!"

Altaïr's fists clenched and he looked away.

"We are wasting our time with 'would have been's," he said, firmly. "No one can change the past."

"And I would rather have you dead than my brother," Malik spat in return, suddenly tossing the compass he'd been holding. It flew across the room, striking Altaïr's face hard and landing at his feet.

For a long time, it was silent - Altaïr stared at the ground, his teeth grit together and Malik watched him in disbelief.

Malik's voice came out shaky and quiet.

"I'm sorry, Altaïr," he said, slowly. "I can't think of myself as better than you when I let my anger get the best of me." He looked away.

When Altaïr looked back, Malik was crying.

Most wouldn't have noticed - Malik was silent, and his face was downturned - but Altaïr had known Malik for too long. He could read the gentle shake in the man's shoulders - and the way he refused to meet Altaïr's gaze was too telling.

Bending, Altaïr retrieved the compass. He moved across the room to the desk, slowly setting it down.

"Just leave, Altaïr," Malik said, quietly.

But Altaïr only stood there. Somewhere in his head, he knew he couldn't leave. He couldn't apologise, he couldn't admit guilt, he couldn't let Kadar rest in peace - but he knew he couldn't leave.

Slowly, Altaïr reached out, placing his hand on Malik's shoulder. Malik tensed, but he didn't throw the man off. That was a step.

"I miss him too, Malik," Altaïr said, quietly. It was the first time he'd spoke of Kadar since his death, and his voice nearly betrayed him, threatening to crack.

Malik looked up, finally, tearful eyes meeting Altaïr's.

"You have no right to say that," he said, but it was weak, broken down. Altaïr's hand stayed on Malik's shoulder, heavy.

"A day doesn't go by that I don't think of him."

Malik suddenly turned away.

"You have a job to do," he said, stiffly. "Altaïr. You should do it."

Altaïr turned to leave, but he thought he heard Malik say, quietly, "I will be here when you return."

And he was.

Altaïr swung back into the office, the blood-stained feather tucked into his belt. He stepped from the small outside room into the bureau proper, but Malik was nowhere to be found.

"Malik?" he called, looking around, curiously. Altaïr set the feather onto the desk, bending to see if perhaps Malik was lying behind it, catching sleep. Just as he bent, however--

A hand suddenly grasped his neck, pulling him back, roughly - Altaïr growled, swinging an arm, stepping back, but the assailant was faster, shoving him against the desk, the hand moving to the center of his back, holding Altaïr down with his chest and face against the wood. Altaïr could smell fresh ink - Malik had been here just moments ago. He growled, trying desperately to push the attacker off.

With quick movements, the man had grabbed Altaïr's left arm, ripping off the hidden blade and tossing it aside. He quickly tied Altaïr's arm against his back, knotting a long cord he was using to Altaïr's belt. Altaïr could tell the man had used one hand and his _mouth_ to tie the knot, and it suddenly became exceedingly apparent who the assailant was. Just as quickly, Malik had him blindfolded, and he moved, grabbing Altaïr's left shoulder and flipping him over so his back pressed against the desk.

"I cannot take a brother from you," Malik's voice began, shaking. "But I suspect you have already done that to yourself."

And it was true - with a sharp pang, Altaïr knew it instantly. He and Kadar had been close, but now Kadar was dead - and it was his fault. He and Malik shared the pain of a lost brother, and Altaïr felt ashamed suddenly that Malik had come to that conclusion first.

Malik's voice continued quickly. "What I can do is take away your arm, and your sight, as well. Let's see how you feel, Altaïr, when your strength is ripped from you, and you are no better than me."

Altaïr knew that in order to save his pride he needed to fight against Malik - to throw him off and to the ground. It wouldn't be hard, he thought - after all, Malik was missing his left arm, and he'd been confined to a desk job for a reason - he simply couldn't fight like he used to. He realised suddenly, however, as Malik pressed him painfully into the desk, his left arm crushing underneath him where it had been painfully tied, that without his, he wouldn't be much good, either. Malik had been without his much longer, and had learned how to move and balance and defend himself without it. Altaïr had not.

But why the blindfold? Malik still had his sight. Why had he taken Altaïr's? Altaïr struggled to kick in his Eagle Vision - a curious ability even Al Mualim had never been able to explain - but it did little good. Through the blindfold, he could only see a faint blue glow - Malik's shape, but without form. It made his head ache, and he quickly switched his vision back to normal, relenting, closing his eyes against the cloth.

"What are you going to do, Malik?" Altaïr asked, quietly. "Leave me here? Torture me?"

"Torture you?" Malik asked. "Unlike you, Altaïr, I can follow the Creed. 'Do not compromise the Brotherhood'. And you are still in the Brotherhood. I am not going to torture you. At least... not in the way you might expect."

"What, then?" Altaïr asked. His heart was pounding in his chest. Despite attempting to stay calm, he was beginning to realize that he was powerless. Never in his life had he allowed someone else to have control over him - and he didn't like it one bit. He couldn't show that to Malik, though. It was bad enough being in this position. Giving Malik what he wanted was out of the question.

"I think you know, Altaïr." Malik's hand began to move across Altaïr's chest, slowly, but it felt anything but loving. Altaïr stilled himself, refusing to squirm under the contact. Malik suddenly unclipped the leather holster for his scimitar, yanking the weapon out from under him and tossing it aside. He then worked at the leather fastenings on Altaïr's belt, removing the weapons that were kept there but keeping the belt in place. He tossed them - Altaïr heard them land hard on the floor, and assumed Malik had chucked them behind the desk.

With a strong yank, Malik ripped the hood he'd already lowered off of Altaïr's head as well - as a separate piece, it wasn't difficult to do, but Altaïr suddenly felt prone and uncovered, and he grit his teeth, the expression apparent on his face even without his eyes.

"Are you angry, Altaïr?" Malik asked, quietly. "Do you hate me? Dislike me? Am I humiliating you? But you're powerless to stop it, aren't you, Altaïr? You just have to take it, don't you? And you don't like that."

"Still your mouth," Altaïr growled - Malik's words were strange but they were worse than his wandering hand, moving across Altaïr's chest and down his body, feeling hard and pressing and wanting, and Altaïr hated it; was considering kicking with his feet, sending Malik flying across the room and running, but he was frozen.

Malik's hand suddenly moved under the folds of Altaïr's robes, stroking against his thighs through tight leggings. Altaïr shuddered, suddenly, shocked. Before Kadar's death, he and Malik had been... intimate on occasion. Once, he remembered, with a pang of sorrow, Kadar had been there, too, uncertain and nervous and shaky, but passionate in the end; beautiful; wanting. This... what Malik was doing felt different, and Altaïr felt uneasy, put in a position he didn't like and didn't want.

"You've made your point, Malik," he said, sounding breathless, and Malik laughed, darkly.

"No, Altaïr," he said, softly. There was a tone to his voice Altaïr instantly disliked. "I haven't even begun to make my point." There was a pause, and Malik leaned down, his lips brushing Altaïr's. "Speak again and I will make you sorry."

Almost instantly, Altaïr hated him more.

"Do not command me," he hissed. "Even as a novice, I am still--"

Before he could even finish his sentence, Malik's hand suddenly came down swift across his face, jerking his head to the side. Malik had slapped him.

For a moment, Altaïr was stunned into silence. The slap had been hard - Altaïr's cheek stung, painfully, and he could taste the beginning of a stream of blood into his mouth - the inside of his cheek had cut on his teeth, opening a wound that would trouble him for days, refusing to heal. At the moment, however, despite the dazed, dizzy feeling and the pain throbbing his face, Altaïr was certain that what had been hurt the most was his pride.

He stayed silent, even as Malik's hand moved back down to searching under the pieces of his robes, finding the top of his leggings and violently yanking them down. Altaïr was suddenly exposed to the warm desert air, and he gasped, his face flushing.

"Even after Solomon's Temple, after De Sable attacked and you were made to take your punishment, the brunt of the blame didn't stay on you, Altaïr," Malik said, warm hand moving to the inside of Altaïr's bare thigh and massaging there. Altaïr felt a deep and familiar want begin to course through him, and he tried desperately to bottle it. "I heard the others talking - some even to my face. That I escaped and left Kadar to die. That I couldn't protect him."

"No," Altaïr gasped. _It was mine._ He wanted to say it, but he couldn't. He braced himself, expecting another blow, but Malik refrained.

"No," he agreed. "We both know whose fault it really was. Don't we, Altaïr? We both know who left Kadar to die. Who was it?!"

Altaïr squirmed. Malik's hand was pushing so hard against his flesh that Altaïr was certain he would leave perfect, finger-shaped bruises. He knew what Malik wanted to hear, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. His mind screamed _"me"_ , but his pride kept his mouth screwed shut.

 _I can't apologise. I won't._

When Altaïr didn't answer, Malik smacked him again, throwing his head to the other side. Altaïr growled - he refused to take it any more, and he suddenly righted himself, bracing against the desk with his free arm, ripping his blindfold off and tossing it aside.

"You will not treat me like a common whore, Malik," he growled, advancing on the man, but Malik stayed his ground, watching Altaïr with dark eyes.

"I believe I already have," Malik answered. "And I believe you haven't proven yourself worthy of anything more. On your knees."

"No," Altaïr growled. "This ends now."

"For Kadar," Malik argued, "it ended long ago. Thanks to _you_. On your knees, Altaïr, if you have even a scrap of humanity left in you."

It was a low blow. Altaïr slowly sank to his knees, fire in his eyes, keeping his angered gaze on Malik's face. It clearly read _'I am not doing this for you'_ , but that seemed to suit Malik just fine. Despite the tears in Malik's eyes, he had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Altaïr longed to remove it.

Stepping towards him, Malik stopped just short of Altaïr - they were only seconds apart, and Altaïr realised all too suddenly what Malik wanted, but he kept his gaze stubbornly on Malik's face.

"So show me, Altaïr," Malik growled. "Your famous mouth. Capable of convincing Al Mualim you are worthy to still be living. Capable of talking yourself out of suitable punishment for having my brother killed. Show me what else it can do."

Burning with shame and anger, Altaïr slowly reached up with his free hand to pull up Malik's robes, trying to uncover him. It became quickly apparent that Malik was already hard. Altaïr grit his teeth.

Malik suddenly reached down, grabbing his wrist.

"Not yet," he said. "Through the cloth, first. And don't use your teeth. You won't return to Masyaf alive if you do."

Altaïr knew that was a bluff - Al Mualim needed him, and Malik knew that. Altaïr knew that Malik would not disobey Al Mualim, either. Even so, he decided not to call the bluff - it was quickly becoming apparent that Malik could do other things, and Altaïr didn't want to know how far he had a license to go.

Altaïr jerked his wrist from Malik's grasp, placing his hand on Malik's upper thigh. He leaned in, opening his mouth, and slowly licked against the bulge in Malik's clothes, baulking slightly at the taste of dirty cotton but pressing on, wetting Malik's robes as he pressed his mouth against the shape of his hardened cock.

Malik's knees locked in place, his legs steeling themselves. Altaïr thought he heard Malik let out a small breath, slowly adjusting his hips, pressing himself closer to the warmth of Altaïr's mouth.

This was the way, Altaïr realised. Malik had been so busy trying to dominate him that he hadn't realised that in the end Altaïr was the one who was in charge of giving him what he wanted. This was the way he was going to wipe that smug smile off of Malik's face. If Altaïr could make Malik gasp, squirm, and cry his name, if would mean he had won in the end, wouldn't it? It would mean he'd bested Malik's little challenge. It would keep his pride intact.

And so he opened his mouth wider, pressing harder against Malik, smirking inwardly when he heard Malik gasp a little louder, backing up just a few steps to lean against a wall. Altaïr followed, his hand gripping hard into Malik's thigh, beginning to massage there.

"You can remove the clothes, Altaïr," Malik said, quietly. Altaïr complied, moving quickly, his hand grasping the back of the long, blue robe Malik wore and yanking it down. Malik rolled his shoulders back, helping. Once that was on the floor, pooled at Malik's feet, Altaïr's hand moved to the belt, struggling with the knot there.

"Having trouble with one hand, Altaïr?" Malik mused, sounding breathless. Altaïr was having a hard time imagining how Malik had managed to tie this behind him with only one hand. "Difficult, isn't it? You wouldn't last a day."

"I seem to be doing well enough to make you breathless, Malik," Altaïr said, pulling his mouth away long enough to get the words out. Malik reached down, gripping his hair and pulling.

"Your mouth, Altaïr," he warned. "Control it."

Altaïr kept quiet, then, feeling somewhat satisfied, convincing himself to stop thinking of why the act was happening and concentrate on enjoying the results, instead. It was Malik's aim to humiliate him, adding insult to the injury of the guilt he already felt, but Altaïr's pride had kicked in full-blast. He wasn't going to allow Malik to win.

With a sharp tug, Altaïr finally freed the knot, pulling Malik's belt to the floor. Malik pulled away, grabbing the bottom of his robe and yanking it over his head. It left only his simple drawstring pants, tied in place. Altaïr didn't waste time, undoing the knot with his teeth and pulling the pants to Malik's ankles. Malik didn't even step out of them.

Taking the base of Malik's cock in his one hand, Altaïr stroked it for a few pumps, and Malik gasped, his head hanging back against the wall. Satisfied, Altaïr finally opened his mouth, fitting it over the head of Malik's cock, gently sucking.

It had been a few months since he'd done this, and it wasn't as easy as he'd hoped to slip right back in - full like this, Malik's size wasn't inconsiderable, and Altaïr was desperately out of practice. Malik didn't seem to notice too much - as long as Altaïr kept his mouth going, he probably wouldn't complain - but Altaïr struggled not to choke or gag or make any sounds that would hint he was struggling. It would only make Malik satisfied, and they couldn't have any of that.

After a minute or two, Altaïr seemed to remember some of the old tactics, and he brought a little more of Malik's cock into his mouth, careful to keep his teeth out of the equation. Malik had warned against it, even though when they were younger he'd never minded. Altaïr wasn't interested in trying his luck, even if he was starting to feel more confident.

Malik moaned, low and long, gripping his fingers in Altaïr's short hair, desperately looking for purchase there. It was encouragement, that was for certain. Altaïr hummed back, sending low vibrations through Malik's body, and that only made the man shudder more.

"You are good with it, aren't you," Malik gasped, "but not good enough."

Altaïr growled, taking more into his mouth, sucking harder, sending his tongue flitting against the skin. Malik tasted warm, and familiar, but it made Altaïr's heart ache.

 _Kadar should be here._

 _And whose fault is that?_ It was Malik's voice, echoing through his head, hard and accusatory, and Altaïr felt diminished, ashamed, humiliated. No amount of servitude to Malik would make up for what he'd done, so why was Malik even forcing him to do this?

Even if he wanted to answer - and he did, for a moment, his heart swelling painfully, his conscience burning with guilt, a cry of _MINE_ in his head like a repeating mantra - he couldn't. His mouth was too full, too preoccupied.

Malik gave no warning but a sudden squeeze and pull of his hair, but Altaïr knew it was the usual, old signal and prepared himself - he was certain Malik wanted him to swallow without having to be told, and Malik let himself go, shaking as if in a spasm, nearly falling. Altaïr braced his free arm to hold Malik up, even as Malik leaned forward, nearly draping himself over the man. Altaïr swallowed as much as he could, nearly choking twice.

After he was done, they stayed that way for a while, Altaïr gently pulling his mouth away as Malik's cock went flaccid, Malik leaning down against him, gasping.

Suddenly, Malik straightened himself, bending and pulling up his pants, tying them in place impressively quickly with a surprising dexterity in his fingers. Altaïr watched him impassively, careful to keep emotion out of his gaze, lifting his hand to begin to wipe away what lingered on his lips. Malik caught his wrist quickly, though, looking down at Altaïr carefully.

"No," he said. "Not yet."

Altaïr watched him carefully, frowning. Before he could say anything, Malik bent, beginning to retrieve his clothes and pull them back on.

"I've already sent a message ahead to Al Mualim," Malik explained, stepping curtly past Altaïr and towards the desk. "You'll be staying one more day in Jerusalem."

"My work here is done," Altaïr said, roughly, rising and facing Malik, attempting to keep all traces of shame from his face, posture, voice.

"Is that so?" Malik asked, eyes levelling on the man. "Your body speaks otherwise."

Altaïr's face burned, instantly knowing to what Malik was referring. His own erection was easy to see through the clothing Malik had kept on.

"That's none of your concern."

Malik laughed then, low. "You're right," he said, "for once. Did I say you could stand?"

"I've had enough of your game." Altaïr's voice was only half-there, though. Malik's gaze cut through him, and Altaïr slowly sank back to his knees, his blood boiling.

"Sit there for a while," Malik said, flipping open a book. He picked up his quill, beginning to write. "Don't move. Don't touch yourself. I'll consider coming back in a few hours."

Altaïr snarled slowly, calling him something nasty under his breath in Arabic, and Malik only smiled, not meeting Altaïr's gaze.

It seemed like, for the next twenty-four hours, he was Malik's slave, and there was little he could do about it. Perhaps he deserved it, but for now, all he could think about was how much he wanted release.


End file.
